300 Flowers
by NewYorks
Summary: Because, without each other, they became useless, they became broken. A collection of drabbles and small oneshots.[100 wicked drabbles]
1. 076 Who?

**A/N: Ok, let me explain my attempt. This isbased on the challenge of 100 prompts;this one is about Wicked (either musical or book based- most likely to be bookbased). So in the next weeks, I'll be updating with new drabbles or little oneshots. I don't know with what frequency, though. All I ask is for you to review. So if you do read, please leave even the tiniest of comments - I would really appreciate that. Thank you. Now, I leave to read.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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076. Who?

**Roomates**

"Ah, Miss Elphaba," the rather low and dull sound of the Headmistress' voice echoed through the much crowded hall. The girl turned to reply to the insipid call.

"Yes?" it came more calm and timid than Elphaba had intended; but let her superior decide.

"I have appointed a roommate for you, dear."

"Is that so? Who, if I may ask, is the lucky one?" her voice full of irony.

Madame Morrible made a look, but pointed towards a somewhat lightheaded-looking blond girl anyway; her round curls and pearly skin suggested a high social status – most likely from Gillikin. She was dressed with the most docile and expensive – Elphaba suspected – fabric in, perhaps, all of Oz. The girl – of about the same young age as she was – seemed like she was about to faint; probably from just finding out she would be living with the infamous, notorious green girl.

Elphaba made a questioning look, and Madame Morrible simply answered, "Miss Elphaba, meet your new roommate, Miss Galinda."


	2. 044 Circles

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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044. Circle

**Observations**

It was odd, her mother thought, how lovely she looked under the moonlight; it gave her a faint, pearly color, making her abnormal skin complexion almost unnoticeable to the eye.

She watched as her child played with the glass circle that the Quadling man had given her; or rather that the infant had taken as her own. The child shifted the object in her hands, studying the soft, rounded figure, looking through it as if seeing another world – a world of her own. Perhaps she did see it, indeed. She was fascinated, it seemed.

But she would not smile. Sometimes – and not too often – she would wail at her new discoveries, as a variation from her regularly sullen expression. Something inside the sphere had caught her attention now. The look she wore was that of acute study. How intriguing.

Then, the little one looked at her mother. She did not smirk though, – as estimated – but there was something captivating and daunting about her all together. Her mother could not figure to look elsewhere; was it a slight speck of a smile she saw, now?

"Horrors," was the only word little Elphaba would utter and the only answer her mother got. And it would be for a long time.

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Please Review! 


	3. 067 Snow

**A/N: I've gotten - what I consider - a seriousely low amount of reviews. And I know that there are a lot of you readers who are not reviewing. I do ask you to leave even the slightest of comments, because I have no idea what you like or don't like. I'd love to know your opinion; I accept every type of critisism. So, please, take the time to comment - I do appreciate it. So, with that said, thanks to all of you who _did_ review. It means the world to me. :-D**

_Disclaimer: Not Mine. Wicked belongs to Gregory Maguire._

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067. Snow

**Surprise**

She would remember that morning for the rest of her life, she was sure. It had been the morning she had discovered something beautiful, something precious. She had discovered the snow.

Oh, that feeling! The cool, fresh feeling. It had been nothing but a surprise at first; a stunningly sweet surprise.

She had walked little Nessie out to the park, fearing that that cold, chilly morning would soon develop into the first snowfall of the season. She had been hesitant – reluctant, more so – at going out, but assertive Nessie would not let go; she wanted to go elsewhere than their house; to the park – more exactly – before the first blizzard would block the clear, plain view that seemed to entertain young Nessie. Fine, she would go. Whatever would keep her sister quiet and content.

But not that day; it was _not_ fine. She feared snow as much as she feared water. Why should its effect be less disturbing than that of the harmful liquid?

Except that it _had_ been less disconcerting. She hadn't noticed at first; she figured it had been the freezing airstream stinging through her outfits. But it wasn't. Nessie's look was that of shock. And it was then she had noticed the white flakes pouring playfully down the sky, making a pleasing tingle through her clothes; yet no bitter injury done to her skin. How gratifying!

And all she could do was smile. She had closed her eyes, thrown her head back, and enjoyed – for what she suspected, the first time in her life – the cool sensations this frozen water produced within her. What an undeniably delightful surprise it was; she found – to her dismay – that she would soon grow to love winter.


	4. 005 Outsides

**A/N: As always, a big thank you to reviewers. You rock!**

**This drabble (more of a one-shot, really) is bookverse. Thought you should know before reading. It doesn't contain spoilers though.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.**

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005. Outsides.

**Gardens and pear trees**

"Oh, Master Boq! How nice of you to join me today!" started Elphaba.

It wasn't the bitterness in her voice that startled him – he was quite used to it by now – but her rather sincere tone. The munchkin got up from the solid floor (where he had previously landed from the much tall tree) and incorporated himself into the conversation. "Ah, Miss Elphaba. I didn't see you from up there."

"I suppose you didn't, did you?" she was sitting on a white bench, her knees drawn up to her chest, and her head so immersed in a book that Boq could not make the outline of her face. She was still wearing her apron, he noticed – she had probably just finished collecting her fresh lettuces. Boq hadn't quite mastered his falling yet, but he had at least learned not to fall on her little (but abundant) garden; the pear tree was bound to suffer in the meanwhile, though.

She hadn't graced him with her scornful sight, however, for she hadn't even bothered to look up. He smiled an awkward smile and finished brushing the remaining rubbish from his clothes.

"To what do I owe your delightful presence?" she asked.

"In fact –"

"Oh, yes. I should've known. You're hoping to catch a glimpse of dear Miss Galinda, perhaps? Or is it that we're studying the height of trees and its relation with the law of gravity today?" Boq scowled at the last.

"You can be crude sometimes."

"Believe what you must." She answered him; though he could catch a small smile forming on her lips. "Anyway, my dear munchkin, our beloved Miss Galinda is away at the moment. I would have thought you knew that already, being such a devoted stalker. You disappoint me, really." The ironic tone offended Boq, but only in the most superficial kind of way.

"I am _not_ a stalker!" he protested. Elphaba only smirked and looked at him for the first time since his tacky, unseemly landing. Boq made a face and moved to sit next to Elphaba.

"May I join you for a brief time?" he asked innocently.

"But of course!" she over exclaimed, and he noticed.

"Miss Elphaba –"

"– I told you to drop the formalities, _Boq_, they are of no use –"

He sighed. "Fine, _Elphaba_," he continued, "if you must know why I'm here, it isn't because of Miss Galinda –"

"Is that so?" the question was direct, though not full of derision as he might have expected it to be.

"Yes." He said simply. "I came to accompany you; that is, if you let me."

There was a pause, in which she seemed to be thinking. Then, she asked, "Have the boys gone out?"

"Well, yes –"

"Of course. Well, I suppose you can stay all the same; it doesn't harm anyone, does it?" she turned to her book, and a moment passed before he dared speak again.

"Aren't we going to talk?"

"Well, _you _can talk. _I_ will read." And then she smiled. He didn't know why, but he returned the gesture with a smile of his own. They both fell into a comfortable silence, and Elphaba returned to her reading. Every friendship started somewhere, he thought; this one started in a garden, next to a pear tree.

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**A/N: I rather liked this one; I hope you did too. Please leave some feedback or review. Thank you!**


	5. 001 Beginnings

**A/N: I've taken the liberty to quote a part of the book below, but I'm too lazy to look it up. Anyways, the quotes are in italics and it's only the first part.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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001. Beginnings

**Valediction**

"_Hold out if you can," she murmured, and kissed her again. "Hold out, my sweet."_

_The driver clucked the reins, and pitched a cry to leave. Glinda craned her head to see Elphaba drift back into the crowds. For all her singularity of complexion, it was astounding how quickly she became camouflaged in the ragamuffin variety of the street in the Emerald City. Or maybe it was foolish tears blurring Glinda's vision. Elphaba hadn't cried, of course. Her head had turned away quickly as she stepped down, not to hide her tears, but to soften the fact of their absence. But the sting, to Glinda, was real._

She would not see her again, she thinks. She would get killed, or robbed, or...

Her mind wonders as the carriage becomes another moving object between the constant activities of the haste city. She cries now, fully aware of her situation. Perhaps not for seclusion, not for loneliness; but for loss and despair. A strange kind of loss, but a loss nonetheless.

She turns around, looking for a comforting sight, a sympathetic look. But there is none. And it dawns on her that this is the worst situation she has ever had to face. Alone and rejected – she supposes, in a way – is what she feels. Yes, she does feel rejected. Rejected by her friend, and hopeless for the circumstances. How uncomfortable; how hideous.

In moment, she composes herself. _All right, let her be_ she thinks. _Let her be stubborn; I don't care, I don't care at all_. She doesn't even believe herself, but hopes she will one day. And she tells herself over and over again that this is not a farewell but a new beginning. A different one, a poignant one. Poignant. What a conventional word to describe herself as now.

She shakes her head, and wipes off her tears. She thinks of her future ahead. Not a very promising one. And then she corrects herself: she _will_ have a bright future; it doesn't matter what others say or think or do. She has to be strong now. She will value her life on her own; no depending on others.

And it's then that Glinda shuts herself from the outer world, and decides to live in her own vision of things. For indeed, it helps her deal with the loss and misery she seems to be living at the moment. And she _will _have a bright future; a future full of balls, cherishes, dresses, tiaras and all earthly objects; a future not too far from herself; a future that was determined the minute the friends had parted.

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**A/N: Well, not one of my favorites, but I like it. Please, _do_ review.**

**On that note, thanxs to all of you who reviewed; as always, you rock my socks!**


	6. 011 Red

**A/N: So, um, only one review? Was it that bad? ... I really am speechless. Thank you, Christine Ruud, for reviewing; I totally know what you mean! So, please, all of you readers review, cause it really makes me feel bad that I only got one review...**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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011. Red

**Dazzling**

They were shinning, that's what they were. Precious, too, above all. And, of course, alluring, gorgeous; singular between any others. How could one resist to such powerful beauty, such dominant splendor? Thrilling, yes; captivating also.

It was funny how such worldly things – as simple as a pair of foot wear – could enchant one's attention, depriving the sight of any other object around. Conspicuous: it was perhaps that what made others resentful and cold. It was perhaps that what had made her love her sister even more – or conceivably just the opposite. It was perhaps that what made her become arrogant, conceited in her own way. It was perhaps their magic prettiness what had destroyed her.

It was, in fact, their dazzling red what unleashed a disastrous lure for them. It was, alas, their insignificance, what had finally killed her.


	7. 013 Yellow

**A/N: A BIG thank you to reviewers, as always. A specially enormous thank you to Kennedy Leigh Morgan, who never misses a review. Thank you.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

013. Yellow.

**Intermission**

She flied above Oz, mounted on her powerful, faithful broom. It was a sensation of freedom she couldn't quite describe; she liked it. She belonged to the skies, where no one told her what to do or how to do it.

Trees were so small from up there; they looked like irrelevant insects. Or single spots blurred by the velocity, like different shades of green paint decanted all over a frame, intended to produce confusion, distortion. And next to them, the clear contrast of a golden continuous path. The Yellow Brick Road.

Her eyes scanned over it, to see if she could find anything familiar, anything at all. And there she was; that reckless girl. And her little dog, too. And… what's that she saw? Three more trip companions? A Tin Woodman, a Lion and a Scarecrow? How wild.

It was then she saw them: the glittering red shoes dancing along the yellow brick road. Her curiosity won her over, and she lowered herself behind a bush to try and catch some of the travelers' conversation, to see if she could possible snap the shoes out of the child. How oblivious the girl was to her presence. The Witch laughed inwardly at the child's ignorance.

"It's kind of pretty," the girl started unpretentiously as they came to a rest on the road, "how the shoes' glint contrast with the yellow of the road." She twisted her feet in a fancy way, as if showing off to the Witch what she couldn't posses – quite spoiled, at that. The Witch recoiled and suppressed the urge to yank the shoes out of the brat's feet. She would have her chance for that, she thought.

"Come on, now, we should get moving," said the Scarecrow. "We don't want to be late to see the Wizard, do we? And we certainly don't want to be found by the Wicked Witch." Everyone nodded and stood up to continue their journey through the yellow brick road.

What they didn't know – and ignored completely – was that the Witch had already found them and was waiting just the time to launch at them. But she let them get away for the time being. Those shoes would be hers; she needed her time, after all, to recover the stolen treasures. The Witch mounted her broom again, and took to the skies, flying nowhere in particular. In the meanwhile, she articulated a plan that seemed all too flawless – just like the yellow brick road itself – to be ignored. She _would_ have her shoes back.

**Please, review!**


	8. 070 Storm

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

070. Storm.

**Growth**

She wasn't afraid, not anymore. It was quite strange – and rather miserable – the fact that not even water made her flinch – or feel anything for that matter. She stood next to the window, amused at the drops of colorless liquid pouring down the sky with such fury; she watched them condense into a vague mist pressed against the window due to the coldness of the glass. It was almost touching.

She could also hear a child's cry from another room; not even that bothered her. Or perhaps it did? It _did_ snap her from her thoughts, though, whatever those were. She could hear the whimper getting closer. How disturbing it was now; she couldn't even think to herself for two minutes.

The moment she thought she could hear the child's cry from the door, she turned to see a young maunt with the howling infant on her arms.

The maunt muttered something to herself and scowled. The young woman approached her and handed her the baby, in an act of nervousness, perhaps; she stood there awkwardly, not knowing exactly what to do. She held the child with such uneasiness, such apprehension; she was scared – not to mention disturbed – by the child's wail and the loud thundering outside that seemed to complain too. She jumped at the sound of a piercing roar, and the child cried even more stridently than before.

What she did next was not something she would have done usually – out of desperation, possibly – and she would have probably avoided the gesture as much as possible; she rested the child over her chest, pressing him against her, caressing his head in a bleak attempt to sooth the child.

And it seemed to work, for he did not cry in disdain anymore; instead, he seemed calm, comfortable in her warmth. She relaxed too, and sighed, having to listen to the child's wail no longer. What an odd portrait, she thought.

As if the skies were to her favor too, it stopped raining. The storm was over in a matter of minutes, and she was pleased for that. She turned to the window once more and sang meaningless lullabies that she had once heard in her own youth to the child until he was asleep. She kept rocking him long after he was slumbering, ignorant to the comfort he appeared to bring her. A smiled was formed on her lips, and she – for the first time in long – was at ease.

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**A/N: Not my best, or favorite for that matter, but it was the first thing that came into mind. So, please comment! (Thanxs to Kennedy Leigh Morgan, as always, for her review!)**


	9. 053 Earth

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

053. Earth.

**F****reedom**

She watches the blue skies, the lovely patterns the mushy clouds create, and she watches the trees dancing to the soundless music that is the wind. She loves watching the Munchkinland scenery; it brings her at ease with herself, somehow.

Nowadays, it reminds her of her own sister, the free flying girl who dared disobey the controlling rules. How ridiculous her sister had been; to think that she could actually contravene the laws and be esteemed for that; to think that she could be independent. To think that she could be without limits.

She watches the sky with a sort of longing now. She hates being bound to the earth, to this silly chair of hers. She hates not being able to be liberated from her position. She hates – she concludes – not being able to be free, like her sister chose to be.

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**A/N: So, small update. I hope you liked it. Please review! (And also, a bit of self-propaganda here, but since nobody reviewed my last one-shot, Torn, I was hoping that someone could read it and comment? Just to know if it's any good. Any type of criticism is welcomed! Thank you - Oh, and yes: I have no shame :D)**


	10. 020 Colorless

**A/N: I'll say this before you read: Please leave a comment. I really liked this particular short piece, and so I ask you to review. I won't be updating for a long time, since I won't be having the time, so I ask you, please, leave a small review? Thank you. (Also a generous thank you to Kennedy Leigh Morgan for reviewing - always so faithful to my updates :D) Enjoy!**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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020. Colorless.

**Darkness**

I watch her breathing steady to a peaceful rhythm after a night of ardent lovemaking. She bemuses me. It isn't her influence she has on other people, even on me, that I admire of her, no. It's her passion: her fervent passion, her devotion, so avid; she seems to lose herself; she seems to be oblivious to anything around her when she's determined on something. It amazes me, and I admire her.

She sleeps now, tranquil as she does, the glassy moonlight caressing her skin, making it look downy, silkier than it already is. Her skin is soft and supple, with an emerald tone that dazzles and enthralls me like nothing else; quite a treasure. I don't think she even acknowledges the wild beauty of it, its splendor. It is extravagant to the eye; it is exquisite.

Her hair, another object of appreciation, is as smooth as silk too, and I love to touch and play with it – so soft, so velvety – just to annoy her occasionally: it aggravates her sometimes, but she lets it go; she knows that I adore that charming hair of hers. I watch the graceful fall of it on the muffled pillow and suppress the longing that it creates within me. I don't wish to wake her, for it would only result in bedlam. Its blackness is the perfect color, I observe, blending into the night like an ideal disguise – a nightly facade. It only suits her.

But in the dull darkness, however, it is hard to distinguish the delicate colors that embroider every aspect of her. Her skin is no longer that fascinating emerald, and her dim hair mingles with the night itself, making her look pale, washing away that natural masquerade. I hold my breath, afraid that I might wake her, and watch her some more. She looks beautiful – she _is_ beautiful – and this only promotes my affection further onwards. Her colorless self serves only as a proof that there is more to my affection that just lust. And so, I believe that she, when our bodies are covered with only a thick layer of darkness – though not thick enough to prevent the fervent passion to grow –, knows it: I love her. She doesn't voice it, nor do I, so it becomes a mutual understanding. I assume, in effect, that, even if she won't admit it, even if she's reluctant to recognize it, she feels the same, but does not allow herself to. Yet, I notice, she sees through me, through my unusual complexion, through my position in politics, through my own veneer. And I see through her – or as much as she allows me too, which is possibly more than anyone has ever been permitted to. It is now that I understand: love does not distinguish; love does not tell apart. That is what mislays her: love does not discriminate between people.

I smile at myself, at my reasoning, at my silliness, satisfied and tired, at last, of such a large amount of thinking. I accommodate myself into the bed, embracing her by her waist, needing to feel her close, and I kiss her forehead for no reason at all. She has this beauty I cannot resist and, in my rather light sleep, I conclude, finally, that love – our love – is, in a way, colorless.


	11. 063 Summer

**A/N: So I lied. I am able to update soon. Sooner that I'd thought, in fact. Aren't you happy? Ha, maybe not. Anyways, This kinda doesn't make sense, but then again, it does. I don't know. It just popped in my head. I hope you enjoy it.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire. The title of this piece belongs to the song of equal name which belongs to lovely Idina Menzel.

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063. Summer

**You'd be surprised **

As he watches her walk clumsily through the green pasture – a greener color than hers – he wonders how long it has been since he last enjoyed a day out, bathing in the sun, with no work stress pressuring him. Little Fabala loves to stroll around, he observes, but, unluckily for her, she hasn't quite mastered the art of walking yet, and he smiles at her ungainliness. He takes joy in the fact that he can spend a day away from the agnostic peasants and, in a way, guiltily as he does, take pleasure at this very moment with his very own people.

He knows he shouldn't be here, he _knows_, but he ignores it, he decides to take a day off and clear his head from all the divine preaching. He doesn't hate giving sermons, he doesn't, really, but he just gets tired sometimes; that's his indulgence: he gets tired.

Today, a hot, light summer day, he wonders – like he has been doing lately – about his own faith and its significance. The light breeze – merely a breeze truly, more of a hot air swirl – caresses his form and distracts him from his thoughts for a second. He can hear a laugh, Melena's laugh, and another man's voice; Turtle Heart. Frex turns, only to see his wife, her belly charmingly swollen, for she is baring their next child, and Turtle Heart, standing just by her side, touching her in a flirty, gentle way. Frex doesn't mind. In fact, he smiles yet again at the scene; perhaps he's too busy to care, perhaps he knows; he knows. And that is why he feels guilty, but at the same time, hopeless: he _knows_.


	12. 092 Lurlinemas

**A/N: Look a update! So, I don't know where this came from, but I like it. The original prompt is Christmas, but since in Oz they don't have Christmas, I decided to change it to Lurlinemas. A little creative liscence. Oh, on that, this is _bookbased_.**

**Also, an enormous thank you to you all reviewers who commented. I was having a bad week and you simply made it a lot brighter. Thank you.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire. 

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092. Lurlinemas.

**A Cookie**

He stared down from one of the many towers' roofs that composed the imposing castle in the wild land of the Vinkus, at the almost white, cold blanket that had covered the otherwise greenish land for some time now. The pallid tint, the freezing air, the freshness of the atmosphere – it all added up to give Liir some kind of private space to himself, as wide as the terrain may have seem; it was _his_ land, he daydreamed, serving him as one of the most majestic and attractive landscapes he had ever witnessed before. He breathed the clear air as he closed his eyes and tilted his head back to bathe in the newly arisen sunlight.

"Liir! What are you doing up there?" a voice called from beneath him; a girl's voice. It startled him, the noise, and he almost lost his balance and fell – it wouldn't surprise him if he should fall off the tower; he was clumsy like that.

Liir looked downwards as he composed himself, and grabbed onto the roof for dear life. Nor, looking up at him, laughed at his almost brutal descend, her mirth reverberating through the castle's yard, making Liir recoil and scowl.

"Come down, you ninny!" she called when she finally managed to stop laughing – though not entirely succeeding; she still chuckled between her speaking.

Liir took his time – a sort of punishment for the girl's tease – passing through Elphaba's chamber as smoothly as he could, trying not to make any sound, but, every once in a while, stumbling into some object or other, cursing softly – though thanking to whoever that Elphaba hadn't woken up.

When he reached the yard, he found Nor picking out some flowers – how she loved those useless things – while she clutched a paper bag with her free hand. The boy, once again, stumbled over a stick, distracting Nor from her little diversion and bringing her attention towards him. She laughed briefly at his gawkiness as he got up from the floor, scowling again.

"Yes, Nor?" he said, a bit too resentful for his like; but the girl had stopped laughing, making Liir grateful for once.

"Oh, nothing," she said, smiling a bit. "Happy Lurlinemas day." She handed him the bag, and turned away, walking – dancing – towards the forest, humming to herself some senseless tune.

Liir looked at the bag in disbelief. He had forgotten about this specific day; he had never received any present. Why should he remember? He opened the bag eagerly, and found a simple, festooned cookie in it. It wasn't that big, or that attractive for that matter, but it was a cookie. The boy wondered whether it would taste good: he had seen Nor and her brothers – sulking as they did so, of course – baking the day before. Liir shrugged, grabbed the cookie and ate it. He smiled: he found he rather liked the cookie.


	13. 048 Diamond

**A/N: Since there's been much confusion about this chapter, let me explain what's going on: Remember that Elphaba used to have a crystal ball? Well, she used to see things, right? This is one of her visions when she's at Kiamo Ko. I think that should clarify a lot...**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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048. Diamond

**Afterglow**

She sees a figure, a woman, hidden in the darkness of the room, concealed in the shadows, masking her own skin, her own face; and another figure, also submerged in the dullness, approaching the first figure in an intimate way, touching her lightly, barely caressing her, but enough for her to stir and rouse. Her attention, then, has a new target: him. The image displayed has a sort of gentle air around it – it denotes comfortableness, in a way: she can see both figures satisfied with the other's presence, but she can feel the anxiety, the tension, arousing, too.

She sees an arm, still colorless due to the lack of light, embrace the woman by her waist – they are both naked, exposed as their true selves and, it seems, not ashamed by it; if so, they are even more contented to be nude than anything else – and she can notice the longing in both their faces – no, not their faces: in the atmosphere: it is sexual, amorous, carnal – their movements confirm the much built anticipation and expectation she identifies within them. It is a sensual scene to watch, a scene she doesn't much care for. But she keeps watching, though; something inside her makes her stay for a moment longer.

She sees them, she studies them, and she thinks that maybe they are just the product of her imagination. She doesn't care. She keeps watching them, intently – she's guilty, she knows, she feels trapped inside this vision, inside her mind, but she doesn't care. She keeps watching.

She watches them some more minutes, as they make love, as they consummate their affection, and then in the afterglow, in their slumber, she sees him move, his hand draping over her slim and sore body in a vague attempt to maintain their bodies in contact, their passion never fading. His movement catches her attention. She sees his hand closely and notices something out of the ordinary. A spot? No. It has a specific shape, and a color now.

Now she knows; she's imagining things. She turns away from the crystal sphere and hovers over. Her tired body complains: her muscles ache, and her weak limbs are almost too heavy to lift, but she makes the effort to move her almost too heavy body over to sit on her bed. A single tear runs down her cheek, burning every bit of skin it touches, making her wince slightly – so piercing, tears. She sits there alone, unnerved, smoldered, with only one image in her head: a diamond. A blue diamond.


	14. 088 School

**A/N: Thank you to the people who have been reviewing! It means a lot.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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088. School

**Some Tea**

"You know, Miss Elphaba," she said, staring – or rather watching – her peculiar roommate, puzzled by her complexion, her rare state of mind, her oblivious presence sometimes. "It is very rude _not_ to accept such invitation and join me – _us_, for tea." Glinda (without the 'Ga' now) was determined on making the green girl more sociable than ever before; even if she died in the attempt. "After all, we _are_ at school; and school, like it or not, is designed to improve our skills – even our social skills." The look she gave was skeptical, light-headed and potentially menacing; but she was kind with her words, knowing that she, for once, had a valuable point.

Elphaba looked up, bemused at the blonde's determination. She had been eating an apple – her favorite fruit – but had stopped when seeing that her roommate, however bothersome, was not going to desist.

"Ah, Miss Glinda," she refuted as she swallowed a piece of the bittersweet food, "_I_ may be rude, as you so bluntly remarked. But they, _they_ do not want me with them. So why bother?"

"Well, _I_ like you," Glinda answered. "And _I_ want to have tea with _you_."

None of the girls expected the sudden answer; her tone was truthful and ingenuous – even kind. Both could sense a sort of austerity in her voice, though.

"If you put it like that, then," Elphaba said a second later. The surprise of such words had staggered them both, and Elphaba's answer had contributed to the shocking mood as well. "Let's go have some tea."

And the blonde smiled and squealed.


	15. 024 Family

**A/N: So, no reviews? That makes me sad... :-(**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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024. Family

**To Kill a Witch**

She thinks it's peculiar the way the two sisters departed this world. She doesn't pity them, nor does she understand them – after all, she _did_ kill them both – but there is a lingering question at the back of her mind that she can't quite deliver into words.

The first kill, albeit, had not been intentional. It wasn't her fault that a twister should land _her_ house on the Witch. It wasn't as if she could control the flying thing. But then again, she loved the attention they gave her. How delighted those tiny people seemed to be! And what a dear that Good Witch had been – she seemed agreeable enough. Oh, and the shoes! What a trait!

It was the tone imposed by the giant head that had conned her into doing it. And then, the helpless image of returning to her dear home had been nothing but an incentive. The mere thought of killing someone was terrifying, yes. She didn't want to hurt anyone. But, thinking it twice, the Witch _was _wicked, wasn't she? She shouldn't feel bad about improving peoples' lives by freeing them. After all, she had killed one Witch. Why not two?

She remembers, of course, later, that her sole task was to kill the green, scary woman, but she decides that she hadn't plan on doing it; she hadn't, really. It had just happened. She had only meant to put out that horrible fire. How could she have known that a certain someone had such an allergic reaction to plain water?

She had heard that they had been sisters, the victims of her, say, 'clumsiness'. How odd that might've been. To have two Wicked Witches in your family; she wonders if the Witch of the East was green too? Perhaps a shade of another radiant color? She imagines her as purple, or blue, or red – and her mind wonders off to infinite numbers of different colors that she might have designated to the deceased Witch. Never would she have imagined to picture her with a normal color: it was far too great an imagery for her: to think that she could have been just like the Good Witch – or even like herself. Even so, it was one peculiar family, that of the Wicked Witches of Oz.


	16. 025 Strangers

**A/N: I'm really hurt that I got no reviews at all for the last 2 chapters. It's a really terrible thing to know that people _do_ read your stuff and don't even bother to comment whether they like it or not. I'm hurt, really hurt.**

**Well, this is a wierd piece. It _is_ wierd, so bare that in mind when reading.**

**And please, do review. Or leave any kind of comment, please? Thank you.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire. 

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025. Strangers.

**Years to Come**

Everything's green, so green, so misty, so cold, so warm, so full of people, so confusing; she walks, she jumps, she bumps into people, she turns; her curls, so bright, so blond; and her skirts, so big, so pompous, so disturbing. She spins; she sees a flicker, a flash of green, of black, of remembrance.

A stranger, such a familiar stranger. Her skin, her hair, her eyes.

They see, they look at each other, they stare. Only a second, a moment, a brief instant. But they communicate, they utter thoughts; they don't speak, no, they do not speak. She _wants_ to speak. What should she say, what should she say? Words, words, anything, meaningless, significant, searching for words. Empty, nothing. What should she say?

I miss you. She cannot voice it. She thinks it. I miss you and I love you. She does not voice it. She cannot voice it. She can't speak, she can't move, she can't turn. So many people, so much green, so much movement, so many obnoxiousness. She wants to shout, to spring, to yell. She wants to crawl, to dissipate, to talk. She cannot do but think. Think, think hard, think light, think.

She blinks warm liquid in her eyes; she holds it, she doesn't want it to run. She blinks again: and she's gone, she's vanished away, she's absent. No green skin, no dark hair, no self. No one's there, no one's standing. It has been so long, so many years gone by, so fast, so slow, so painful.

She turns again, shaking her curls, thinking, thinking again, but not of her, no. Thinking of anything but her. She turns away; she turns and never looks back again.


	17. 006 Hours

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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006. Hours.

**Awaiting**

She waits. She sits and she waits. She reads as she sits and she waits. Her mind wonders not to the political and redundant contents of the dull book, but to other places. Places where her mind would rather be, with the touch of soft hands, and beautiful blue diamonds caressing her skin.

She waits for hours, longing for his dark skin; it is such an untamed lust she has developed it even scares her at times. She doesn't care much about it, though. She cares about him, about his kind words, about his rough need, about his sapphire eyes. She cares about him as she waits, and the extensive hours seem too long to bear, too exhausting to endure.

She waits and she remembers the feel of two strong hands circling around her waist, that syrupy, manly smell of his perfuming the air around her. She closes her eyes as the remembrance becomes too real and too painful to tolerate.

She waits. She sits and she waits for him.

In a second, she distinguishes a figure coming through the door. She smiles, and she waits no longer.

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**A/N: Love it? Hate it? Feedback is _always_ apreciated!**


	18. 083 And

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

**

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**

083. And.

**Will you?**

"M-Miss Galinda?"

"Yes, Master Boq?"

"I-I was wondering… do you think it possible that – that we could go out sometime?"

"We?"

"Yes. You and – and…"

"Oh, dear, I don't have all day. And whom?"

"You and I."

The girl then laughed and fluttered her curls under the soft sunlight, its blond glow entrancing the Munchkin for a second. "Miss Elphie _is_ right. You _can_ be fun sometimes." She turned away to her friends, laughing and walking lightly to her next class, unaware of his existence. The Munchkin boy was left standing there, staring after the unpredictable girl, heartbroken maybe for the first time.

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**A/N: Comments are _always_ welcome!**


	19. 055 Spirit

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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055. Spirit

**Unbreakable**

They could be mean. They could tell her words, dirty words, and they could push her and hurt her and make her feel bad. They could call her names and they could taunt her.

He could blame her, he could point out everything to her. He could be demanding, he could be condescending, he could judge her all the time. He could hate her, he could use her and he could detest her.

She could be careless with her, she could be self-absorbed, she could be disinterested. She could utilize her, she could command her, she could be cold. She could be strict, she could be arrogant and she could look down on her.

But they would never, Elphaba vowed, break her spirit.

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**A/N: Reviews are really appreciated!**


	20. 036 Smell

**A/N: Sorry for the long delay, but the site wouldn't let me update! I hate it when that happens! Anyway, here you have it.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

**

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036. Smell**

**A winter evening**

She's so special. She's so beautiful. Her perfect hair, her perfect skin. Such wonderful blue eyes, such generous gestures. It is almost too lovely to see, to see her walk through campus at so early an hour, to watch how she only shrieks or recoils whenever a snowflake falls over her head or her perfectly round nose. That, she thinks, is nearly too funny also.

Her cheeks, rosy from the cold, match the color of her scarf – if she hadn't known better, she would have thought that the girl would have done it quite on purpose. She's wearing one of her dresses – pink, no less – and a similar coat, hugging it to herself to keep warm. She's coming towards the building at a fast pace; she seems in a hurry. In a minute, perhaps two, she'll be entering the edifice; and in three, probably, she'll be entering the room, filling it with that fresh smell of snow that she adores so much, and that sweet, intoxicating perfume of hers. That's the only aspect that she likes about her roommate: she always smells good.

Elphaba turns from the window and shrugs. Deciding for the comfort of her room, she absentmindedly grabs a book from her night table and starts reading, all previous thoughts forgotten.

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**A/N: Look! 20 Chapters! That's quite long for me, I must say. So, now, be kind and review, please? For me?**


	21. 009 Months

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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009. Months.

**Pending**

It had been months since the Witch's departure.

_Elphaba -- Not Witch, she doesn't like Witch. Elphaba._ Liir kept correcting himself. But, come think about it, that _was_ the name she had wanted everyone to call her. Would she like it better if he called her that too?

"Dear, is that cheese ready? It's always good to have cheese for unexpected visitors." Nanny kept ranting about. She was insane, or had gone completely nuts over the past months; she couldn't walk, and almost all of her sight was gone too. She kept complaining about having to do everything by herself and something about a certain Melena? Liir wasn't quite sure. But she was mad beyond reason, that he was certain of.

"The cheese, boy, the cheese!"

Liir sighed and turned to the window. The only company left was a crazy old woman, and a clattery monkey who couldn't even pronounce his name. _**M**onkey._

It had been months since the Witch's departure. Month's since he had seen her fly off on her broom to the East somewhere. And what long months had those been.

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**A/N: I took some liberty with this drabble, when referring to time issues. Nothing major, though.**

**So, what do you think about it? Reviews are always welcome, as long as they are constructive. Thanxs!**


	22. 029 Birth

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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029. Birth

**A**** slight imminence**

No matter how much the maunts tried, they couldn't get the woman to nurse the child. Not so many hours before, several maunts had gathered around for the commotion that was a delivery. Some curious ones – with the much disapproved knowledge of Superior Maunt – had sneaked in to see what the child would look like. Because some of them had bet that the infant would turn like its mother. _Green._ _Green as sin._

But, to all of their surprises, it did not. _He_ did not, for he was a boy.

And here they were, two, three, four maunts trying to get the green woman to feed her child. "Miss, the child needs to be fed. He needs a name too." But she seemed to be in a comatose state, not involved in what was happening. Not even the desperate cries of the infant would alert her.

The maunts desisted, and left the child in a cradle next to his mother. She wouldn't look at it though.

"Let her be," said the Superior Maunt, and all of the younger ones left the room, leaving mother and son alone.

The child cooed softly, and Elphaba moved for the first time in hours. She looked at the child directly into his eyes. Blue, piercing blue. She stretched a hand to reach into the cradle and feel for his own tiny ones as a burning tear flowed down her face. Then a soft, short word escaped her lips, "Liir." And she retrieved her hand, again falling on an endless sleep, unaware to the world.

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**A/N: I'll admit it: not my favorite in the least. I don't like it, actually. What do you think? Comments are welcome! (as well as for the last drabble, since I got none). Thanxs!**


	23. 072 Fixed

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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072. Fixed

**A Sort of Reluctance**

"I don't need to be fixed,"

"I know." He approached her in a subtle manner, managing to seduce her with his unique calmness, his warm touch, so soft, so tender she barely even noticed his caresses.

"Especially not from you," How very reluctant she was tonight. A challenge – she was proposing a challenge, wasn't she?

"Why are you still here?" Oh, he loved it when she played it difficult. "I am not broken, you know."

"You are not broken," he said, and kissed her, "you, my love, are the one who fixes my everyday, the one who completes me to no end."

And with that she melted into his arms. Because, without each other, they became useless, they became _broken_.

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**A/N: Comments are highly appreciated!**


	24. 071 Broken

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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071. Broken.

**Missing you**

_Dear Miss Elphaba,_

_I am not sure if you may recall, but if you do, then I beg –_

She grabbed the paper and tossed it away. Whatever did it matter, anyway? She knew that Elphaba would never get the letter; she was gone. Yet, she took another sheet of paper and scribbled down some words.

_Dear Elphie,_

_Hi. It's me. I don't know how to say this, but –_

No. No, it wasn't working. It just wasn't. A single tear ran through her face and she sighed. Trying for the third time, she wrote:

_Elphie,_

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you, I'm sorry that I didn't trust you when all I should have done was look into your eyes and know the right decision to make. I'm sorry, Elphie, I really am. I hope you finally found happiness, you deserve it. I miss you and I love you,_

_Glinda_

_

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_**A/N: A very BIG thank you to Kennedy Leigh Morgan who always reviews. Like always, comments and critisism is welcome!**


	25. 059 Food

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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059. Food.

**Harsh cravings**

There are many, many things he misses. He misses the feeling of spongy, supple touch; he misses the occasional better sense of warmth and heat; he misses the playful, expecting scents of nature.

But what he misses the most about being human, what he regrets the most about not having a heart, is not being able to feel the heavenly, blissful taste of food. _Food_. Any food at all.

It is revenge he tastes instead whenever he thinks about his old, human self, when his heart was still beating. All because of _them_, and now he was Tin.

There are many, many things he misses about being human. But nothing like the sweet, relieving taste of warm, delicious food.

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**A/N: What do you think? Feedback is really helpful. Review, please. Thanxs!**


	26. 079 When?

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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079. When?

**Unexpected Twists**

"When will you be leaving?"

Her tone was expectant, rather bemused at the news, and her eyes were wide with anticipation. How much could some words change one's future?

"In a week," she answered, "in a week I'll be heading for the Emerald City." There were few times in which Glinda had witnessed such an emotion ponder in her friend – no, in fact she was sure she had never as much _suspected_ of seeing a hopeful expression over her features. But now, such were the circumstances, happened to be that special time: she got to see a cheerful Elphaba for once.

"Oh, I'm so happy for you, Elphie!" Glinda, all bubbly and bouncy, lounged up from her seat and made as if to hug her friend. "You are going to meet The Wizard! _The_ Wizard!"

Elphaba nodded and returned the hug, content about the news herself. She hoped, in a rush of gaiety, that everything would turn out fine.

But in a moment of true self-awareness, in a moment of imperfection, Elphaba knew she did not want to be alone through this – she _couldn't_ be alone, she wouldn't be able to go through it by herself.

She turned to her friend, apprehension in her eyes, and suddenly said, "Glinda, would you come with me? To the Emerald City?"

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**A/N: Reviews are welcome for this and the previous prompt. Thank you! And Merry Christmas to everyone!**


	27. 042 Triangle

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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042. Triangle

**Child's Play**

To see the child actually interact with other kids was something she would not have expected to happen any time soon. But of course, her nanny being Nanny, would take none of her reluctance; she had taken her child to the nearest playground – which, unfortunately, wasn't _that_ close – so that the infant could have normal contact with other young.

Today it was her turn to bring her to the playground. She would take her to the field and leave her there, hurriedly walking back. But something about the day and mere curiosity had made her linger for a moment in observation. Now, she watched as her child approached the sandbox where a boy was playing with a triangular form, taking delight at how the sand molded under its pressure. The boy, a Munchkin for sure, looked up upon noticing a shadow covering his playing space. He ogled for a moment, and then said to her child, "You're green."

The words stung in her ears. Not the child's, but _hers_. Even after all this years those words made her wince still. But then, something more:

"You're short," she answered him. She smiled. It was true, even if the boy was sitting down, he _was_ shorter than the rest of the children around. Their looks of engagement and utter truthfulness – of course, stating the obvious was a child's duty, if not to speak the tacit facts – was touching, and almost adorable. They took no offense in the other's words, but instead shrugged and dismissed the moment. The boy moved over so that she could sit down next to him, offering the triangle as a sign of open friendship. They continued to play while she headed back home. It was truly fascinating how children got to relate: careless and entertaining.

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**A/N: What'd you think? I'd love to read any type of comment.**

**Happy New Year everyone:D**


	28. 016 Purple

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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016. Purple.

**Unconventional to her**

"I will certainly _not_ wear any of _that_!" Elphaba exclaimed. "They're all so… _pink_!" She was looking through some of the outfits that her roommate had displayed for her to choose to put on for the next winter ball. It had been an hour – an hour! – and Galinda could not make her green friend relent into the _idea_ of picking a dress.

With an exasperated sigh, Galinda sat on her bed and pouted for what seemed the fifth time in half an hour. All of a sudden, her eyes widened, and a broad smile splayed across her features announcing that she had come with an idea; a great idea. She hastily went inside her closet and drew one of the many black sacks which appeared to contain yet another one of her attires. But, to Elphaba's surprise, it wasn't just any outfit.

"Purple," Galinda said, convinced. Yes, to everyone's surprise, Galinda possessed a dress that _wasn't_ pink, for a change. It was probably one of her most hidden and private secrets; it wouldn't surprise Elphaba that not even her closest friend knew about this dress. "Purple," Galinda repeated as Elphaba gaped at the dress. The blond made as if to tell her friend to go try it on, and she did. When she came out with the dress on, she looked stunning; the dark violet with a hint of purple sparkles clung to her almost flat body with a flattering effect of waves and movement. It concealed her lack of curves, but highlighted her exotic, appealing emerald color of a skin in a beautiful way. This was _her_ dress.

"Purple," Galinda whispered, offering a solution and looking back at her friend, who was staring at the reflection on the mirror.

For the first time, Elphie felt kind of pretty. Purple would be the color she would remember as trustful, caring and kind.

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**A/N: I don't know what to make of this one, really. But I would appreciate some comments. Thanxs!**


	29. 032 Sunset

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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032. Sunset

**In the East**

As she watches the sun setting over the distant horizon, she can't avoid the impish grin that is forming over her lips as her iniquitous mind reveals something uncertain. The awkwardness and the betrayal she has had to face isn't something she has projected – though of course, she should have.

At this time of the day she cannot help but notice the slightest resemblance between the sundown and the resentful events of that evening. The dying of the day, the darkening of the atmosphere: such analogies for the death of her sister are what make her smirk. Such irony, nature.

She watches the fading sunlight and growing shadow caressing the humble and almost destroyed house; there isn't much she can do about her current situation. Does she mourn for her sister? Yes. Does she regret Glinda's treachery and battering today (that will evidently continue to be)? Yes. But does she regret being the way she is, and choosing whatever she _wants_ to choose? No.

As she turns from the now vacant and abandoned residence, a single tear, combined with that madness that will drive her away from her own self, is what is left of her doleful character. Obstinacy, she reflects, is her new incentive.

With a wicked cackle that reverberates over almost all of Center Munch, she rises with her broom and flies. She flies away from the sunset. She flies away from her dead sister. She flies away from her dead past.

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**A/N: Reviews are very much welcomed!**


	30. 039 Taste

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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039. Taste

**Of a Summer**

He would remember the first time he kissed her.

He would remember her hazel eyes, pleading, fearsome; her perfectly round nose, cute, so charming; her rosy cheeks, flushed, timid; and her soft lips, their tender movement, their sweet taste; a cherry-like taste, a sugary taste, a heavenly taste – his very own ecstasy.

He would remember that beautiful summer evening, that delightful moment – his awkward movements, her hesitation, his determination.

He would remember her words, later on, "But you're _little_! You're a _Munchkin_, for god's sake!" and he would cringe and sadden and shy away.

But he would remember that she would not complain; he would remember that she had kissed him back.

And he would smile, remembering once again the taste of her crimson lips pressing against his very own.

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**A/N: Read and Review, please!**


	31. 033 Too Much

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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033. Too Much

**Enough is Enough**

She would not let her talk. "Enough is enough."

"But you have to _know_. You need to –"

"No one tells me what I need or what I don't need to know except my own self." With a stiff look and a resolved position, she turns her head to dismiss the other woman away. "Auntie Guest," she starts, "just go away."

"No," replies the other. "I won't do until you listen me out. Your husband's death, Fiyero's death – it's my fault, I got him killed –"

"Enough, Elphaba!" Closing her eyes as if trying to isolate herself from the ongoing conversation, she sighs and speaks in a much more tender tone. "It's too much," she tries explaining. "I've been through my husband's death once. I don't want or intend to go through it again." She pauses for a brief moment, and looks at the rather stricken guest. "And neither do you."

Elphaba turns away, disengaging herself from the guilty but blaming gaze that constantly burns her way. Feeling somewhat mortified and battered, she recoils and retrieves, leaving Sarima in her parlor all by herself. It happened to be, Elphaba discovered, that the widow (as much ignorant and uninformed as she presented herself as) was quite acquainted with her surroundings. For all that Elphaba knew, and identified over her stay, Sarima knew already what she was trying to tell. And to Elphaba, that was too much. It was too much.

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**A/N: What'd you think? Comments for this (and the last piece) are highly appreciated:D**


	32. 002 Middles

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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002. Middles

**Somewhere in Between**

At the beginning of her life – though she couldn't remember correctly – she supposed that her life hadn't been peachy either. Melena, her mother, and consequently Frex, her father, hadn't been exactly happy when she had been born. Oh, no, they didn't tell her anything about it. But she had known; she could see it in their eyes, in their remorseful stares. How could they be? A baby born green. To their dismay, their daughter had been cursed – or rather a curse herself to their sins; Frex's sins, as he had said it, for Nessa had been Melena's own nuisance of a daughter. And to her dismay, they loved her sister even more, and resented the older sibling for reasons she couldn't quite understand when she had been a child.

Her last moments- oh, how she remembered those peculiar moments – were beyond demented. Her last years at Kiamo Ko – Chistery, Sarima, the Sisters, Liir – they had all pushed her away from her own self, not to mention the eccentric death of her sister and the arrival of that childish, infuriating little horror. It had all been so terrific, so miserable, that not even she wanted to deal with her wretched life.

It was in fact her middle-life that had nothing to do with the rest of her deplorable existence what she cared for the most. Shiz: an era so far away that the memories were cold, intact, distant and still fresh, though barely vivid. It seemed another's life, apart from her own. She recalled as if seeing through different eyes, as if she were someone else. But she liked to revive her youthful self, and with her, a young Glinda sometimes; her first true friend. At times she could not help feeling regret for leaving without including Glinda in her plans. But that would have only wrecked the blond in time, and even her, she told herself.

It wasn't after five years that she could at least live up again. Fiyero – oh Fiyero: his seductive voice, his glossy hair, his sinuous touch, his dim skin, his gorgeous blue diamonds. So irresistible – such a demolishing feeling, but yet so beautiful and innovative. She had never felt anything like it before, and she would never trade it for anything in the world.

For Elphaba, her middle-life was her most cherished time. Not the unfortunate beginning, not the disastrous ending: but the young, simple middle.

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**A/N: Meh, not one of my favorites. But it's there. What'd you think? Review, please:D**


	33. 095 New Year

**A/N: Hello readers! Please read and review. It'll make me really happy :) All of you know how nice is to receive a comment on a piece of writing. Reviews for this, and the previous chapter, are welcome. I hope you like it. Enjoy!**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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095. New Year

**Foolish Generosity**

She seats neatly on her chair, expectant, uninterested, fumbling with the hem of her skirts. She purses her lips as she lowers her eyes towards her anxious hands. A soft gust of wind playfully shuffles her hair, but she rejects even that: quickly she accommodates it again with a sudden twist of the hand. Around her, everyone's laughing, drinking; but she, she's silent, leisurely biting her lip, tense, dejected, restless. She doesn't understand why all of the exhilaration around, why all of the gathering.

Someone speaks her name, but she doesn't turn. Never has she spent such occasion with anyone other than herself. She's obliged to this – engagement – only because someone told her to come. She wouldn't have bothered were she alone, like previous occasions.

"Five! Four! Three! Two...!"

In a flash, she sees her friend (with a glass – of wine perhaps? – in his hand) gaily approaching. She tries to shake him off with her gaze, her cold disposition, but he seems too drunk to notice.

As everyone cheers for the final number of the countdown, he smiles, and says, "Happy New Year, Elphie!" and he drinks until his glass is crystal clear. He smiles at her with true kindness – or perhaps that is the wine grinning right there? – but Elphie cannot help returning the gesture.

As everyone dissipates back into their own crowd again, she mutters under her breath, gratefully, "Happy New Year, Boq."


	34. 022 Enemies

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing. It mean the world to me.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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022. Enemies

**A Threat?**

"We're opposites," says she, "but does it mean we're enemies?"

"Enemies?" he asks, perplexed.

"Enemies," she sighs as she sees his utter confusion. "Well dear, tell me, have you not been distracted from your actual business lately?" He nods and she continues. "Enemy: an entity that is seen as forcefully adverse or threatening."

"So, what you say," he speaks as he stands up from his chair and embraces her lovingly. "Is that I'm a menace to you." he presses their bodies even further together and she moans as a response; but to him it isn't enough. "Do I distract you? Am I a threat to you?" he asks teasingly, playing along, his face inches away from hers. His arms encircle around her waist now, and hers, around his neck.

"Maybe," she says in an adverse whisper surrendered to his seductive manner. He kisses her ardently, fiercely, passionately, both gasping for air a minute later.

After a moment in each other's arms, a lovers' embrace, she says, "Enemy: an entity that is seen as forcefully adverse," she looks into his eyes, and smiles wickedly, "or threatening."

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**Review, please!**


	35. 090 Home

**A/N: Hope you like this next one. Again, thank you to everyone who reviewed.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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090. Home.

**Home**

What she would call her home?

She'd guess she'd say her house. The house where she grew up as child. The house where her parents still lived in. The house that has beautiful gardens with rich, colorful flowers of all kinds (even her favorite: roses). The house that served as her castle whenever she used to play Princess as a young girl. The house that holds a room – among endless rooms – that is covered with pink: pink linen, pink bed covers, pink shutters, pink sunlight. Yes, she guesses that is where she'd say her home was.

Because your home is supposed to make you feel safe, comforted, sheltered. Thus, she'd guess she would answer her parents' house.

So why was it that she though of Elphaba every time someone asked her about her home?

Perhaps – and though she might not entirely realize it – home, per se, was not a _place_. Perhaps, of all turns, home was a _person_.

_Home: an environment offering affection and security. Often a place of refuge and safety, where worldly cares fade, with things and people you love becoming the focus. _

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**Review, please.**


	36. 086 Choices

**A/N: I wanted to say thank you to everyone who reviews. It means a lot. :**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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086. Choices

**In His Eyes**

So his choice wasn't exactly conventional.

Others might have preferred handsomeness over affection. Others would have gone for the safe (and, well, 'popular') option instead of the risky, dicey chance. Others wouldn't have bothered for a certain someone he was so fond of after all this time.

But in his eyes, in his spirits, there was only one, and one only that mattered. Perhaps to others – _others_ – it wasn't a matter of fondness, of instinct: it was a matter of weaknesses, of inducement – nothing else but the sick veracity of being unwanted. It was almost brutal.

To him, it wasn't only attachment in itself: the choice he made, the sacrifices he did – she made them worth for. It was such an effortless sacrifice for him: almost an instinct, an amalgamation of them both. His need – he needed her as much as she needed him – a romantic need. _She_ was his weakness.

He chose to be a Scarecrow. He chose to be a Scarecrow to be with her. He chose to be _her_ Scarecrow.

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**Like it? Don't like it? Comment, please!**


	37. 051 Water

**A/N: My heart to reviewers. You rock.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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051. Water

**Questionings**

"Are you afraid of water?"

The green girl arched her eyebrow upwards. "Hm?" she asked, still immersed in some book or other.

"I _mean_," said the blond, pausing (to give a little dramatic effect, of course). "Are you _allergic_?"

"What gave you that idea?" As she sighed, she put her book down and gave her full attention to the other girl.

"Well," explained the other, vacillating a bit, "there's this rumor –"

"A rumor?" the girl chuckled as she grasped the meaning of what her friend was trying to imply. "A rumor? How wild, my dear. You know, you should _never_ listen to rumors. They might just come true." The green girl grinned and gazed at her somewhat puzzled roommate. What Glinda thought she saw next – though she wouldn't quite remember it later on – was some kind of understanding, of mockery: some kind of suggestion, of conspiracy.

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**A/N: I'm not very fond of this one, personally. Any comment? Feedback?**


	38. 046 Star

**A/N: Ouch. No reviews for the last one. Anyway, here you have the next one. The title is 'star' in French, I beleive. Please review. Enjoy!**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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046. Star

**Étincelle**

"Do you like?" a finger rose from the darkness towards the glistening sparkles. "Do you like 'em? Hm?"

She was dancing. She was dancing before the moon, and the stars where her patulous witnesses. She was free – free, free from herself, free from his quiet indictment – no, she _felt_ free. She wasn't free, was she?

It was something she couldn't quite understand. She reached up, trying to touch, trying to feel the delicate diamonds, stretching as if her plump but thin fingertips could really outline the fierce, soothing shine of the droplets. Startling, tempting; sparkling. She had always loved stars. But did _she_?

"Like the stars, dear?" She got no answer. Instead a pair of young, hazel eyes stared into the oblivion that was the night where her fingers had been pointing at.

They both liked it, Melena and her daughter: just void, liberty and sparkling diamonds.


	39. 065 Passing

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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065. Passing

**Sibling Association**

It wasn't as if she hadn't thought about it herself; but perhaps the plain unconscious, solitary thought scared her more than she even let on.

"Elphaba?" her sister spoke the name with such tenderness and – was it worry? – that she, just like her sister, glanced frivolously in return.

"What is it, Nessie?" she hadn't been listening; unfortunately for her, she hadn't been listening to a word of her sister's.

"I asked you," she repeated as she, not with subtlety, scowled with a sort of petulant air, as if to remind her sister of her binding duties. "If you remembered Mother?"

Elphaba, in huff of anxiety, remained still and motionless. She was asking if she remembered her – _mother_?

"Yes," was all she could manage.

"Was she –" Nessarose stopped, and hesitated for a moment. "What was she like?"

The question in itself was pitiful and hopeful; expected even. Yet the somewhat fragile manner and the simple words were quite poignant, something Nessa had always managed to convey within people, within her sister.

"Mama was," what should she say? "– nice." Was all that came out. And it was true; somehow, as a three year old, your mother always seemed _nice_.

A moment passed between the two sisters, though not long enough for their bond to grow. Elphaba suddenly commiserated her sister in a new way. The passing of their Mother was not a common subject. But sometimes came the rare occasion in which Nessarose – being the youngest and unacquainted with the mother – became curious and even buoyant.

The silence in the room grew unpleasantly cold and distant, breaking any kind of sympathy from any of them. They looked away, neither wanting to meet the other's gaze. The passing of their mother was, in other words, a connection: whether it brought the siblings together at times, or whether it drew them apart, it was something they shared in common. They only had one another, even when they didn't.

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**Reviews are really appreciated! Thanxs!**


	40. 035 Sixth Sense

**A/N: Again, more of a one-shot than a drabble. I couldn't help myself : Anyway, thanxs to all of my reviewers! Please, leave a comment!**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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035. Sixth Sense

**Casual Conversation**

"Oh! Master Fiyero! We meet again." The high pitched voice and bubbly tone were certainly not to be missed by anyone who knew her; not even a close acquaintance at that.

"Greetings," The Prince turned around to meet charming blue eyes and radiant blond hair. "Lady Glinda, a pleasure to see you."

"Oh yes, yes," dismissed the woman. "Sit, sit." She invited the dark skinned royalty to sit opposite to her in a small, hidden, glamorous yet quite bohemian café that he just happened to pass by. Out of politeness he joined her; she didn't notice his impatience and grimace when she told him to take a seat and stop his run.

It was a light evening, the sun just setting, making the Emerald City glow under its precious pretence of a capital. They chatted – _she_ chatted – and Fiyero found himself zoning out, wondering to the place he'd rather be, glancing to his clock a bit too eagerly.

"So tell me," she said after a while of gibberish talk, "how is she?"

The question, of course, took him completely by surprise. It was blunt, direct and rather unclear. For a moment, he contemplated the woman having a sixth sense for these things. After all, it wasn't the first time. His eyebrows shot up, and he put on a puzzled expression. "Who do you mean?"

"Dear Fiyero. I'm not as dry as I act." Her eyes softened for some reason, and he understood what she meant; he saw, he thought he saw, the real her for a change – not the pertinent public figure, not an impression of a character: but the real Glinda.

"She's fine," he said truly, nodding and reassuring her. "She's… herself."

"Good." was her only response. "Tell her I miss her." she paused, but only for one second. "Tell her I'm sorry." He nodded once again, and a moment between the two passed.

Glinda lowered her eyes, and when she raised them again, he noted that her walls (and that droning, dull impersonation) were back on. He noted also, with some disgrace, the years that had been roughly imposed over her, the great exertion that had been shoved her way without her realization or wanting, he supposed. It was quite sad, and fairly refreshing.

"I must go now," she said suddenly. "Be well, and be safe." She said reasonably, perhaps as a warning, perhaps as a custom, and she kissed him on both sides of his cheeks – yes, the traditional Gillikenesse salutation – leaving in a swift of skirts and glitter. She went as fast as she came.

Fiyero glanced one more time towards her direction. He recalled with some bitterness yet with adoration his cherished times at Shiz. But he released the thoughts quickly, not wanting to depress himself. For now, he had other matters to attend to. And he continued his now nightly walk.


	41. 018 Black

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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018. Black

**Black and Dusty**

Black. It was simply… _Black_.

Black and dusty. Quite sharp at the angles, yet soft at its base. Curious. Was it old? Or was it the latest fashion of the season? She wouldn't know; she wasn't into that sort of things.

Concave and hollow. Triangular, cone-shaped. It was funny, wasn't it? It screamed personality, it had a character of its own. Would it look good on her? _Did_ it look good on her? She liked its feel; it was light, molding just perfectly above her head. It felt powerful, graceful: it was _singular_.

Poised and elegant. It was her first real gift: she had to admit it: she was growing fond of it. Somehow, it muffled her features by its prickly slant. Amusing; such a companion to her complexion.

Black and dusty: was it pretty? She felt pretty. It was a hat – _her_ hat: black and dusty, her first real gift, from her first real friend. She knew _she_ liked it. It was black and dusty: resembling her, somehow. Black and dusty.

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**Love it? Loath it? Any comments?**


	42. 057 Lunch

**A/N: Big thank yous and cookies to reviewers. Always brightening my day. And since my writer's block seems to have installed itself in my head for God knows how long, I keep writing this drabbles/one-shots. Hope you enjoy them.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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057. Lunch

**Try**

She flinched as a piece of what she suspected to be lettuce landed over her perfectly tight and white bun. "Oh dear. Must we endure this endeavor of yours?"

It was Nanny who spoke, and Elphaba who answered, "At least she didn't make _you_ explode."

"Oh, Lurline, spare us," What with the old woman complaining, Elphaba at the verge of laughter, and Nessa vowing and praying, Galinda felt like no one would give her the merit she deserved for at least _trying_. "How many times more, darling?"

Galinda pouted and grumped. She crossed her arms, her brows frowning across her forehead in an attempt to show her discomfort. "I _try_. I really do. Why are you all so mean?"

"We have no trouble with you trying," replied Elphaba. But Nessa shot her a look, not in vane. She turned her head, stubbornly dismissing her sister's expression, only to find Nanny cursing and fighting with the remains of blasted food on her hair. "Alright, _I_ have no trouble with you trying. But must you do it every time at lunch?"

"I suppose not, no," Galinda was a bit mulish and quite reluctant at admitting the whys of her disasters – or even her disasters at all. She supposed Elphaba was right – she could try doing it some place else, some place that did not involve _food_. "Fine, I won't try it at lunch anymore. Nanny, my apologies," she turned to the old woman, who, funny enough, had missed a smashed tomato on the back of her head. Galinda grinned, but chose to say nothing. That, right there, was the proof of her efforts. She had been _practicing_; she had been _trying_. She would make a great sorceress one day.No matter how much exploded sandwiches it took her to get through, she would keep _trying_.

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**Good? Bad?Comments?**


	43. 060 Drink

**A/N: Always a big thank you to reviewers. Reviews are awesome:)**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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060. Drink

**Elixir**

The liquid was rather thick and substantial; she barely tasted it with the tip of her tongue, shy as she did so, afraid of what she would find. It wasn't attractive to drink: it was amusing to observe. Its color – oh, what a fabulous shade of a color – was bright, intense, vivid: she wanted to feel _alive_,to _forget_. And though she flavored it, with a certain level of reluctance, he could still sense her hesitation.

"Go on now, have another drink," he said, inching closer to her young form. Stroking her hair, and moving it aside so that he could scent in the smell of her perfume, he sighed and whispered into her ear, "You know, you have the most attractive eyes I've ever seen. Such a dark eyed beauty…" and that eliminated any vacillation within her.

As she drank the heavy liquor, tilting her head backwards, savoring its thickness, tasting its magical ecstasy, she thought about the odd passer-by. The stranger who was currently holding her close, provoking her, _inducing_ her into something else – something a bit more… personal? Intimate? _Passionate_?

She forgot of everything and everyone that night. She forgot about her aggravating husband and her frustrating life. She got lost in the heavy thickness and haunting greenness of the liquor. She vanished herself in the Miracle Elixir.

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**What'd you think? Any comments?**


	44. 004 Insides

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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004. Insides

**The Resemblance Within**

It is on the outside that we stand out: quite different, our appearances, and even our interests and fashions are dissimilar. Opposites even when it comes to skin color, our exterior reflects what we want to show, what we are somehow _forced_ to show, and how we want others to see us – well, mostly in _her_ case. I'm a bit more… antagonistic, shall we say?

In people's eyes she's perfect: blond, curly hair, cherry lips, silky skin, and a radiant smile. Me? Rather the opposite. I have green skin. Need I say more?

But it is possible, perhaps – I've noticed – that we resemble each other more that we acquaint for. It is in the inside that we are similar – don't fret, I can hardly admit it, but it's true: we are shy, we _become_ shy, taciturn about revealing our true selves; we are impossible when it comes to intimate matters, and we are horribly difficult to get close to. We are insecure: she puts her daily façade on, her shining pretext of a character, and no one can notice it; but I do. She has, in turn, alas, undergone my slapping comments from time to time, but she dismisses them carelessly. Incredulously, she can notice, I can tell, that my sarcasm (not to mention my looks) drives people away, my fright of getting too personal evident at some point or other. We become what people expect us to be – me, a fiend; she, a princess. But it is that insecurity that brings us together: somewhat moving, yet abysmal: such a rare feature. We are not so divergent after all.

It is bemusing, and rather uncanny, how much we can bear a resemblance: just _not_ on the outside: but in the inside.

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**Reviews are love!**


	45. 027 Parents

**A/N: Here's the next installment. I hope you like it. Please leave some comments on this and (if you can) on the last two, since I got none. Thanxs; enjoy.**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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027. Parents

**By Nature**

By nature, children grow up to become their very own parents. Or so people say. She didn't fit whatever people said about other people, anyway. But the thought of her becoming like her parent was quite repulsive and somewhat bewildering. She couldn't help but wonder from time to time: was she like her father? Was she _becoming_ like her father?

_No_. What first came to mind was that her father was, in a word, unionist, _extremely_ Unionist, awfully committed. But what she admired the most was his passion, his infatuation, which, with some reticence, she admitted she had inherited at some level. She _was_ religious after all – though what she called 'religion' wasn't what her father would approve of. She was fanatical, righteous (unto some point, she supposed), obstinate and _devout_; and yet all of those seemed to fit her father as well. Interesting.

If she remembered correctly – of what her father had told her, and of what little memories she had – one of the greatest circumstances that had made him more obsessive with his mission, had been the death of a lover – Turtle Heart – the apparent great love affair he and Melena had shared. Though both probably knew of the adulteration of one another, it was somehow secret and arranged, shared and concealed; it had become part of their marriage – a meager routine, but necessary nonetheless. And when he had died, he had felt guilty.

Guilty for his death: claim for the family's mercy was all that was left. In hope was the wish for forgiveness. But it was denied, and the grief became intolerable. Something else they shared in common.

He said, also, perhaps a bit too frankly, that she had been his punishment. She hadn't quite understood him as a child. But now, as a grown woman, his allege was evident, and even applicable: Liir. A punishment; could it be? She realized now, with sorrow and aversion, what he had meant. And that's all that she could say about it.

It is now that she laughs at what she's become, at what she recognizes within herself: children _do_ grow up to be their parents.

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**Comments are highly appreciated!**


	46. 078 Where?

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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078. Where?

**Horrors**

_Her eyes scheme through the landing, languidly taking everything she sees in: she's a predator, a prowler, hunting for her victim. _

_She flies. She's not on walking; unnatural. Her hair is thrown back and tugged by the violent wind, ruffling it wildly; black, daunting. It makes her look even more vicious._

_Her hands are stern, tight around a pole. Is it a broom now? A broom._

_Eyes blazing, curious, even mad. And there, she sees them. A girl and her comical companions. They are blurry and indiscernible though._

_In a gust, she lowers herself, and a witch's cackle is heard: malicious, contemptuous, twisting. _

_She shots a look, and the green behind those eyes petrifies him. How beautiful in her sour way she is: what a sight, so familiar._

"Yero?" she says, drowsy. He's sleeping, stirring beside her.

"Huh? Fae?" he shots up and opens his eyes to find his lover half asleep and half naked beside him, concerned at his movements.

"You're murmuring something. A nightmare?" he sighs as she speaks and rubs his eyes. "What happened?"

"Hm?" the images of his sleep still taunt him; he's somewhere else.

"Where's your mind, love?" she tries to remain awake, but slumber has other plans for her. She's drained, he can see, and he nuzzles back into bed with her.

"Nowhere," he kisses her forehead, "with you now. Go back to sleep," he listens to her breathing steady and go shallow, snuggling closer to her slender form, holding her closer. Feeling comforted by her, he sleeps again, forgetting whatever nightmares he had before, dreaming contentedly in the arms of his lover.

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**Feedback is really helpful and appreciated!**


	47. 075 Shade

**A/N: So I was just able to upload 'cause the site wouldn't let me last weekend! Anyways, this pece is more of a oneshot (I can only seem to write longer pieces than drabbles, go figure). All I ask is if you could please, please leave even a tiny comment? I would really appreciate it. Thanks!**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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075. Shade.

**Shadow**

He observed her long, tired body accommodate itself across the couch with such delicacy and wariness that even the atmosphere felt a bit older than he would have expected. He wouldn't have stared at her if it were any other occasion: but something about her behavior, about her attitude was distant and—riveting. His eyes scammed her much familiar face, tracing each line, each memory, each wrinkle with an anecdote of its own; he noticed a few new ones and pondered what mystery lay behind each fresh mark. Even if familiar, her face – even her attitude – had changed not only in markings but also in expression, in reaction. How apart they had grown to be – or rather aged to be. She sighed, and he noticed with some ignominy that she bore bigger problems than whatever he had started to imagine she dealt with.

"Father?" she spoke in that same childish tone: not stubborn, but child-like, something she could never rid from doing: it was natural still, when she spoke to him, like if she were an infant again.

He looked over at her one more time, locking eyes with her; soft yet, he asked, "Why do you keep yourself in the shadow, Fabala?" Frown; she didn't quite catch the full meaning of his question. How elderly she looked –older than what she must have been really.

She did scowl, contemplating the meaning of his remark. It was her turn to study him: he hadn't much changed, not really: he was older, granted, but what could she expect? Behind all that graying, thinning hair she still found the warm – but not quite loving – eyes of her father's. The stiff and resolute expression, the authoritarian look still remained within his features. His beard had grown long; a declaration of his wisdom, or perhaps age? People tended to confuse one with each other. She couldn't decide which one pertained to him currently. Strange, and even vague, how perception changed over the years.

"Shade?" she repeated the word as if foreign, out of her character. He wanted to speak to her; but shade? She was never questioned about her being in the _shade _before.

"Yes, shadow," he looked at her, frowning in return. "You know what I mean, Fabala," she still wasn't getting his point. "Your sister, she's taking the control, she's in power, she's on the 'spot light'," he started. "She's on _your_ spot, and we both know she wouldn't—will not last."

It was brutal, his manner, and it stunned her. Never had he desecrated her sister, never had he spoken a word against Nessarose. That cruel bluntness was something unidentifiable within him, something new. Perhaps not so new, perhaps recently discovered, but wicked all the same. And to have it be against Nessarose! Novel.

"And here I was, thinking she was your favorite." She chuckled, being able to somewhat control her surprise, and seeing beyond his words to meet his point: the old man was right, but she wouldn't fall into his game. "I will not take over my sister;" it was time to get serious. And serious she was. "I will not take over the Eminency. No, don't start, I will not betray my own sister, period." Her eyes were slightly apologetic, pitying the man's sudden desperation. It occurred to her later on that he might have said that not to go against his precious young daughter, but to save her instead. To save her, from all absurdity, from her own self. "I won't rise up to rule selfish Munchkinlanders who don't give a damn, let's be frank, about anyone. I won't come up for you," she said, a bit cold. "I won't rise up for Nessa. I won't be in her way when disaster ensues. I will remain disclosed until I'm needed. I shall remain in the _shadows_."

"But Fabala—"

"Good night, father," and she left the study in a hurry, not glancing back. She had gotten mad, for no reason at all in his eyes, but to her, it was a big deal: she got irritated with him.

She walked in the obscurity of the night, she walked hurriedly, she walked in shadow. And she liked _her_ shadow.


	48. 081 How?

**A/N: Short update. Reviews would be _very_ nice. Also, I've been running short of inspiration, so if anyone wants to suggest any prompt that isn't on the list or any plot situations, you're welcomed to do so. Reward: you get dedicated the piece!** **Or something else. We'll see smiles. Just PM me or leave a comment. Thank you!**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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081. How?

**In Opportunity**

"But how, Miss Elphie, to make her love me?"

The question held so much hope, the words so much potential (yet fantasy), it surprised her he even dared to speak his mind. It suffocated her, the sugariness of his words; it suffocated her sullen atmosphere with sheer joy and unfulfilled expectations.

"The real question should be: how to make her _notice_ you in the first place." She was being petty, she knew, but she just loved to see him stop and ponder. "But that's way out of your—our—reach, dear Boq."

"Oh Elphie, don't be smug," he replied as easily. "Everything is possible." She glanced at him, but said nothing. He took her silence as approval and smiled: he was daydreaming again; and it made her sick.

"Boq stop that. She doesn't even know you _exist_. She ignores you completely," she sounded jealous, for some reason or other, and he was confused for a moment. "Oh not again: I'm not jealous you little airhead, stop looking at me like that. I don't care whether she as much as looks at you," she paused, and took a quick sip from her tea. "She's not worth your time."

"But she is. I know she is. _I_ know _she_ exists, and that's all that matters." She rolled her eyes. He smiled at the thought f his love.

"You're helpless, Boq, really, I thought you were better than this."

"Oh Elphie, no one's better than love," he sighed, and she sighed. She shot him a look, clearly disagreeing. He winced at her gesture but overlooked her intentions. "So please, Elphie, help me, as a friend that you are. Help me with her. Help her _notice_ me, if you must," his eyes were pleading, and she could not look anywhere else.

"Fine," she couldn't say no to him. He was kind of pitiful, pathetic, a fool in love. But he was her friend, a true friend. She couldn't neglect that. After all, what were friends for? "Fine, meet me tomorrow afternoon at my garden. I'll se what I can do."

So Boq did as he was told. And he couldn't stop smiling for the rest of the day.


	49. 038 Touch

**A/N: I'm still open to any suggestions you'd like to bring. Please review. And enjoy!**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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038. Touch

**Hands**

The touch is so velvety, so stealthy, it is almost unnoticeable. Hands are soft, glossy, gentle. Almost as if they knew. It is unusual, a novelty; quite revolutionary. Beautiful, their movement: dancing and playful, like children. Plushy fingers, sensual fingertips. It is tickling, the touch, such pleasing sensation.

It's unreal, the tinge: what a marvel, what a spectacle. Hands trace curves, lines, in awe, in admiration: an uprising. Tender skin meets hungry palms, moist, supple contact. A recoil, a surprise of the heart, of the body. Eyes lock, another novelty: it's so strong, look away, look again, eyes meet once more. It's addicting and new: refreshing.

"I better get to safety... I mean the cub... get the cub to safety." He says, and he goes.

"Fiyero!" he hears her, her cries, but he doesn't turn. He can't.

To Fiyero, her touch is just too much.

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**Please Review!**


	50. 093 Thanksgiving

**A/N: Let's hear it for chapter 50! Woot! Haha, okay, yes, that was lame, but I'm happy! I'm half way through! ) Anyway, I took some liberty and, since they do not have Thanksgiving in Oz, I tried something different, but still suitable for the prompt. I hope it works. As always, please review (if not for getting to the 50th chapter :P). Enjoy!**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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093. Thanksgiving

**Thank You, Friend**

"Thank you," she said, shy and timid.

Glinda looked at her, awestruck, trying to decide whether she had heard her correctly. "Pardon?"

"Thank you," her voice was louder, stronger yet; but retrieved, hesitant still. She was not fully confident of her words, but she wanted to say them, to really express herself to the old friend by now; to let her _know_.

However, Glinda had a hard trouble reading through her friend's expression: she had changed so much over the years; she's not even sure whether a smile on her friend meant happiness or melancholic recollection anymore. "Elphie—why?" it's blunt, she knows, but she couldn't find any other way to ask her—why? It's all she wanted to know.

"Because," she too had a hard trouble finding the correct words—if there was such a thing. She glanced up, her look straight into the blonde's own blue eyes. "Because you were my friend,"

"I _am_ you friend, Elphie," she corrected the other woman. "I _am_ you friend,"

Unexpectedly, the green woman launched forward, making Glinda wince. In a swirl, Glinda was taken aback by the gesture, moving awkwardly and surprised. But she relented to the idea a second later, when she figured out what her friend was doing: Elphie was hugging her. "Elphie?"

"Thank you," for a moment, the blonde thinks she can see a small pool of hot water welling inside her friend's eyes, but she dismisses the thought. She is grateful, though, for her friend, and for her friendship. Realizing what Elphie meant when speaking, she smiles kindly in understanding. They embrace once again, and they take a moment in remembrance. A minute later, it is Glinda who initiates the hugging gesture. For she is grateful too of having a friend such as Elphie.

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**Reviews are a wonderful thing:)**


	51. 019 White

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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019. White

**In Snow and Imagination**

White was, perhaps, the most extraordinaire color she had even had the chance to experience. She loved it, there were no other words, really—it was so pure and perfect and…delicate.

Like snow. Ice. She loved the cold. Why? She couldn't just say why, but she loved the pasty, frozen flakes pouring down the sky with such liberty, such freedom. It was overwhelming and liberating at times. As a child, she always loved to fool around with the different and unique shapes of the flakes. As a grown woman, she would stare and smell the fresh odor of winter, content about the season's festivities and peaceful arrival. Uncanny, some would say. But she liked white, and no one could argue about likes.

She was bound to the soil though, the mud well accommodated beneath her stubborn feet. How she wished, though, how she wished she could play with those snowflakes with her inexistent hands, gathering the forms on her absent palms and watch them melt away, feeling the frosty and arctic sensations trembling through her body, her missing fingers messing around with the pallid figures.

Yes, white was, without a doubt, her favorite color of the season.

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**Review, please! It is _very_ appreciated, and it makes people (me) happy ;P**


	52. 085 She

**A/N: Hello, my pretties! Sorry for the delay. I've been struggling with myself to find my inspiration, my muse (that has been hiding from me this past few weeks, but let's hope that it's just temporary).** **And I've been struggling with college as well; it's taking it's toll on me, unfortunately. Again, let's hope it's just temporary. Anyway, here's the next installment. Not my best--I don't like it, quite frankly. But I'll leave it to you to decide. So, please, leave a comment and tell me what you think. :D I'll appreciate it!**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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085. She.

**Harboring Glares**

She was not kind. She was unkind. A cold gaze, an aggressive touch—much the opposite to many women. Never a loving word, never a caring gesture; so what was he to expect?

"Get out, you're a disturbance," she would say often, without a second thought on the words' repercussion on him. She was unkind, and she didn't even care.

Every time though, he expected—he hoped, secretly—that she would at least acknowledge him, even if with a small nod, or a faint look. But she wouldn't. She would ignore him most of the time.

He longed form warm words and affective manners at times, but she, even when suspected to be his mother, would not provide any.

And she would take no notice of him; she would have none of it. He was used to that, of course. It didn't actually bother him until he met Sarima and Manek and Irji and Nor. It was then—or was it earlier?—that he even took acquaintance of her unkindness.

She was unkind, but he stood by her side: even if ruthless, it was something, it meant something to him: it meant that even when she didn't care, she did—she pretended to ignore him, but was there when he got hurt—if only to scowl at him, she was there. If only to scowl, she was there.

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**Review, please!**


	53. 015 Blue

**A/N: Ah, well. Reviews have been down. A bit of disapointment really. But anyways. I just hope you can leave a review for this next one. It'd really brighten my week - which has been a really bad, by the way. But! Enough about that. Just enjoy. Happy reading!**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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015. Blue

**Blue**

Blue was the color of her first blanket, the blanket where she was laid upon and not touched for a week.

Blue was the color of the sky when her sister had been born. It was the last color she saw before going inside and watching her father mourn for her dead mother.

Blue was the color of her uniform at Shiz. It didn't really go that well with her.

Blue was the color of her eyes, Galinda's (later Glinda's) eyes. Her first and nearly single friend. And blue was the color of her dress when they had parted that day in the Emerald City.

Blue was the color of his diamonds. Perfect, deep blue diamonds. And she had been in love.

Blue was the color of his eyes too, undeniably. But she chose to deny, and deny she did.

Blue was the color of the tourniquet's precious stone Sarima had been wearing when she had arrived. Such a painful sight, that woman.

Blue was the color of the brat's dress. Squared and obnoxious. Just like her: to have killed her sister.

Blue had been the color of the water that had killed her alas and at last. And blue had been the color of her mercy, of her soul.

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**Please review! Thank you!**


	54. 062 Spring

**A/N: This is sort of random. Very random, actually. But funny. I think. Anyway, you've been warned. :)**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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062. Spring.

**Flowers**

To say the least, she was annoyed. How dare she! How dare she!

"How dare you, Miss Elphaba?" she was looking rather odd, her hair all swiveled out and raged in a ball of madness. It was funny, ironically, and beautifully distressing the image displayed. "How _dare_ you?"

"Miss Glinda," Yes, her tone suggested mockery, but only to those smart enough to notice it. To the blond, it sounded as though she was being patient. "I've tried explaining it to you, I did," the simple sight of that pink, shiny character undergoing a fury attack was enough to make her laugh beyond any possible reason. But for both their sakes (who knew what the petite blond could do when she was actually irritated?) she kept silent and quiet, stifling her laughter and hiding her smile. "Now, now, let's not get mad,"

"Not get mad?! Oh, outrageous!"

"Miss Glinda, you promised," she was getting exasperated now. After all, Glinda had promised she would do this.

"Oh, stupid promises. Fine," she sighed and walked with the comical, greenish outfit clinging to her body in such an amusing way that everyone, _everyone_, turned to watch the pair. On her head she wore this hat, an obvious, loathsome hat, covering the whole of her head and blond curls: it had pieces of clothes of different colors and sizes sticking out. They were petals: yes, Miss Glinda of the Upper Uplands, Miss Popularity, was dressed as a flower. A colorful, _hideous_ flower. Not in vane: she was handing flyers, sponsoring some Ball in front of everyone. _Everyone_!

She was, to say the least, annoyed.

"See, Miss Glinda, promoting the Spring Dance _can_ be entertaining, cheer up," it was evident in her voice that she was laughing now. To this, Glinda got even more furious and shot her a glance. But a promise was a promise, so she put on her best smile and did as she had to, to everyone's laughs and musings.

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**Comment, please!**


	55. 003 Ends

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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003. Ends.

**Yet, She Wonders**

When she isn't reading, or seeing that every household chore is done perfectly, she stares out her window with a forlorn expression, formulating ambiguous questions and thinking dubious answers. Her blue eyes scan the park she has walked so many times, and the flowers she has seen die and bloom over and over as well.

She has become a Lady, the Misses of the House, a woman of Society, reserved and preserved.

Yet: her once golden curls lay flat and almost white against her head and neck. Her once radiant skin seems to have developed folds, wrinkle under wrinkle, story under history.

She is alone: she has been for a long time. She is thin, too thin; she has lost interest in food and its appeal is but a distraction. "Unfortunate," she hears the servants mutter when they think she isn't listening.

How she longs, in the end, that she wouldn't be alone. How she longs that, after so many years, at the verge of passing, she would have some company.

She longs to have chosen different paths when she was still young. She longs to have done the right thing, to have gone with her, instead of being stuck in this huge house with empty rooms and soundless echoes.

She wishes, in the midst of her death, to have gone with her.

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**Comments are like, the bestest thing in the world:)**


	56. 031 Sunrise

**A/N: You know, I've just relized that it's been over a year since I started this. It's weird, since I've never had a fic that's taken me this long. -sigh- Well, just putting that out there. As always, I hope you like this one :)**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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031. Sunrise.

**T****ime Was**

"Don't. It's cold," I said as I watched her stir and rise from bed.

"I'm up anyway," she answered me, half asleep yet, her voice drowsy and sheepish. "Why are you up so early?"

I shrugged. Really, there wasn't a reason for my awakening; I just couldn't sleep. Something was bothering me—I could not pinpoint what exactly though. "Next week's Lurlinemas," I commented, changing the subject huskily.

She didn't make any move to indicate she'd heard me. She had put on a nightgown and was close by. Then, "The sun's just rising. We should go back to bed."

"I want to be here with you." She was ignoring the fact that I knew I wouldn't be able to be here, with her; and I was ignoring the fact she didn't want to argue, not now. But I needed to let her know. She wouldn't listen later.

"You can't. You _can't_," she was not asking for permission—she was commanding.

_But why can't I__? Tell me the real reason! _"Elphie, it's Lurlinemas, for Oz's sake—"

"No." she was strict, and she had her resolute look on. She softened then. "It's early, love, let's get some more rest." She walked over to bed, and let her robe fall to the floor as she got in, inviting me to a more personal moment. I was upset with her, and even though it was minor, I shot her a look.

"I should get going," I didn't look her way next—I just grabbed my clothes and started dressing up.

"Love?" she asked, confused, really confused. It was rare, even for me, to hear such confusion in her voice—that feeling of perplexity is almost scarce within her.

"I've business to attend to." I lied; I knew, and she knew, it was a poor excuse of a lie; but I was mad.

She didn't say a thing, and I didn't speak a word either. Just then, after putting my boots on and grabbing my coat, did I look at her: she was baffled—was she sad? I thought I could see some tears welling up, but just shook the idea out of my mind—she couldn't be crying, not over this; could she?

I couldn't stand the look on her face anymore, so I just glanced another way. Dashing to the door, I looked back just one last time, to see, to watch, to glimpse at her soft yet pointed face, trying to understand her, to explain myself, to communicate and to protest. And there, I saw it—the pain. No, I did not want to cause her pain—seeing her like that was disturbing, heart wrenching, wounding even, and it pained me. But yes, I was mad, and yes, I thought she got my point (by awful means): being traded by business, even for lies, is hurtful.

It pained her, but it pained _me_. And I just left. I left her and I didn't even say goodbye.

I would have said something had I known it would be one of the last times I'd ever see her again.


	57. 066 Rain

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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066. Rain.

**Touch**

_Lightings, __forewarnings of rainwater._

Unimaginable caresses, warmth and coldness combined entrance them, seducing their senses. Desperation is found in the most heated encounters: is it a want, a crave, a _need_? A kiss here, a whisper there: and the loving emerges; unique, soft, and fearful. In the hands of the beholder there's the anticipated affection, it is the unexpected desire. Silky waves, tender movements, inexpert traveling of the fingers, all add up to the learning of the body's nature.

_It's raining, I'm scared._

There's no hesitation, no doubt; but is there? They ask for permission. A nod, and off they go, tracing the smooth curves of untouched, glowing skin. Yet they are shy, innocent, tentative but thirsty.

_Darkness._

In exploring there's taste: in taste there's desire: in desire there's love. Fondness in the physical character: the decisive incident—an instinct yearned for, expected and unexpected, welcomed and induced: the hands' touch is just a foreshadowing, a suggestion of what's yet to come.

_P__ounding water against glass._

It feels wrong. But it's not wrong: it's wicked. Even if mischievous, does it feel—aberrant, iniquitous, deviant? No, it's beyond anything and beyond their selves. Such intimate gesture, a hand's touch: a lover's touch now.

_Thunders, rain pouring_. _Hold me closer_.

A moan, a shiver, an embrace. And they lay together, and they love each other.

Afterwards, her words echo in his ears, in his mind, "Yero, my hero," and he gives her his heart, his self, his soul: and his hands are drawn to her face: angelical, beautiful. The raining stops. She loves him, and he loves her. And in the end that's all that matters to him. To her.

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**Love it? Hate it? Please, review!**


	58. 010 Years

**A/N: A little different, this one. Not sure how I did though, so any comments will be greatly appreciated:)**

_Disclaimer_: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.

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010. Years.

**When in Unease**

In years he would learn that there wasn't such a thing as power: there was fear. And that's why, he guessed, it was that he came to be. People, in the end, were scared of whom he was and of his grand—manipulation?—management.

In years he would discover that power was a meaningless thing, if you came to think about it. What really mattered, what really caused commotions, was apprehension. He was strange when he had arrived: strange clothes, strange manners, strange ideas, strange transportation. Who wouldn't be afraid of him? Him and his new ideas of politics; him and his new ministrations. Ambitioned and envisioned. He had his aspirations. It was magnificent and daunting: he was trusted to be some kind of a savior.

In years, of course, he would know that terror was effective but interim. Even if proposed to be successful, there was something he couldn't achieve. He had his perks, of course. He had his ´power', his money, his possessions. If he wanted something, he had it. If he didn't want something, it disappeared. He was comfortable, much too comfortable, and he was bored. And yet there was that something missing. He was alone. And no fear, no power, could fix that. Loneness.

In years, he'd realize there was this increasing unease he could not cure, or take care of, or resolve. The Wizard of Oz would realize that power, _fear_, was not everything he needed to be happy.

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